There, it’s out. Gosh, I feel such relief already. You have no idea how hard it is to hide my love for boobs and vagina. I think of all the years I spent grooming myself, wearing cologne, listening to house music, and forcing myself to eat sausage. I, sadly, did it all to avoid awkward situations at the workplace and in social events. I consider myself a modern day Jack Tripper. Did you know, Jack was a San Diego native? How fascinating! OK, I’m not a San Diego native, but I live here now and, did I mention how much I love bulbous woman ass?

I hope you appreciate this difficult thing I do–writing through my tears.

Don’t worry, there was no childhood trauma that sent me to the pink side. I was born a pussy lover. Sure, I didn’t realize it until a third grade substitute teacher, Ms. Rizzo, lectured about multiplication tables, all while sporting an epic camel toe. (I believe that back in 1970 it was called a “vertical smile.” Camel toes are children of the 2010s.)

“OK, who knows what six times nine is? Phil?”

“Panty hamster.”

“What?! You go stand in the corner and think about what you said.”

“I can’t. I’m sporting wood, and if I think about it much longer, I might make cumsies in my slacks.”

I guess the writing was on the chalkboard.

Believe me, I tried to like cock. I stared at a few mushroom caps in the locker room, but they only made me crave salisbury steak. I didn’t want to touch one, let alone sit on or swallow one. Ew. Even the butt thermometer creeped me out. If I were gay, I would have frequently faked a fever, and asked our handsome family doctor to check my temperature again, and again, and again, perhaps while stroking my Dutch-Boy doo, and singing Madonna’s “Crazy For You.”

*sigh*

It wasn’t meant to be.

Then, I discovered tits. Honestly, I wanted to love Tom Selleck’s hairy pecs. I distinctly recall watching Magnum P.I. while touching myself. I remained limp as warm saltwater taffy. Then came I Dream of Jeannie (and yours truly, all over my belly). Jeannie’s lovely lumps of libation made me hard as calculus. I so wanted to shrink myself, climb into that bottle, and shesh kebab that annoying wink/tic right out of her.

All the social pressure I was feeling, made me question my desires as recently as last year during the Summer Olympics. I was glued to the TV while watching the men’s swimming events. I even lubed up both fists and stroked along with Ryan Lochte. No dice. At one point, my penis tried to impact itself in my abdomen. Thankfully, women’s beach volleyball came on, and all was well.

So, I’ll not fight my heterosexual tendencies any longer. Judge ye not. Accept me for who I am: a connoisseur of love tacos, not burritos.

OKLAHOMA CITY – (Where the carrot cake comes sweeping down the buffet.)

In light of Claire Crawford‘s (a.k.a. skinny bitch) piece written for CBS Houston regarding the chunkiness of one absolutely delicious cheerleader, the OKC Thunder have decided to push the cheesy fries further by hiring Governor Chris Christie onto the squad. The governor admits he has little experience shaking pompoms and doing splits, but claims he can eat bonbons and banana splits like no other.

“I’m happy to join the Thunder cheerleaders to teach that pencil-legged wench that cyber bullying will not be tolerated,” Governor Christie explained. “I am not defined by my size. I make one fuck of an awesome pyramid base, and wait until you see me handle a t-shirt gun. Blam! I can do that shit even while scarfing down a foot-long with onions and chili sauce.”

Some New York residents question the move, especially since the home town Knicks are still alive in the playoffs.

“The Knicks already have one buffoon on court. Yes, I’m referring to Spike Lee,” suggested popular on-court announcer, Craig Sager. “Little prick stole my tangerine suit jacket. I think it’s a smart move by the Thunder. From what I hear, Christie can dunk too. No more mascots jumping on trampolines at halftime. Arm Christie with an apple fritter and tall mocha, and you’ll see magic.”

We attempted to reach Twiggy Twat Crawford, to get her reaction to OKC’s move, but she was “unavailable to comment.” We did notice that her latest Facebook status update said she was in an office stall on her knees with two fingers down her throat. Figures.

OKC cheerleader coach, Ben Tover, explained the move.

“We reached out to Chris Farley, figuring he would be perfect for the job, then found out he died in 1997. That’s inconvenient. We are also concerned that there will be articles written about another featured cheerleader, because she’s rumored to have Hep-C. We’re ahead of the game, though–currently in negotiations with Terrie from the anti-smoking commercials (you know, the one with the wig and hole in the throat), to add her to the squad. Obviously, we can’t have her leading cheers in case her neck hole leaks, but that atrophied body should make it easy to throw her on top of other cheerleaders.”

In related news, A.J. Clemente (the “gay fucking shit” newscaster from North Dakota), tweeted his support of the “chunky” cheerleader:

Every few years, our English language comes under attack by slangers (n. lazy motherfuckers who think it’s cool and trendy to butcher a perfectly fine word by lopping off a few syllables or combining it with a related word). I blame cell phones for the latest massacre. People are too busy driving, walking, or working to take the time to write properly formed sentences in a text message. So, they abbreviate, often saving nothing more than a letter or two. These mouth-breathers become infected with the word virus, which begins to affect their speech.

In a now famous video, a rookie newscaster in North Dakota broke his network cherry by uttering “Gay … fucking … shit” under his breath. He attempted to recover by explaining that he’s from the East Coast, which makes complete sense to me now. We Easter Coasters have such fucking potty mouths.

“Hey Ma, pass the fucking gravy.” – Phil at age six, with one black eye at age six plus 24 hours.

This incident cost poor A.J. his job. If Guinness keeps records for the shortest job tenure, this one must be near the top. I’m envious.

My first job was sorting punch cards for Smoke Enders into alphabetical order. I could have exited that job more efficiently.

“You put these in alphabetical order, add them to these cartons, and stack them on the shipping dock when full.”

“I am grossly overqualified for this position, so how can I best say this? Ass bullshit cock dicklicker erect fucking gash-grazing hosebag.”

As I recall, my second job was washing dishes. I could have made a career move day one there.

“What’s with this fucking caked on shit? Ever hear of a thing called Pam? I’m not scraping another fucking pan. Fuck this place; fuck it with a dry Brillo pad.”

My third job involved digging holes for tombstones. No shit. I should have bailed from that one too.

It was both unfair and unwise that A.J. was fired. His intent should have been considered in the situation. He certainly did not intend to have those naughty bits broadcasted. He simply panicked, and vented while he figured his microphone was off.

NBC could have taken advantage of this and spun it into more viewers, higher ratings, and more ads sold. How many people watch that stupid newscast? 1000? 2000? Shit. A.J. was able to draw more viewers with the first three seconds of his debut than that silly show gathers in a month. The YouTube videos have been seen over 1.2 million times already. NBC should anoint him the cursing anchor and have him bleeped on TV, and a live, uncensored feed online.

“In today’s *BLEEP*-ing news, that younger brother bomber, What-*BLEEP*-ing-Ever-Ev T-*BLEEP*-Wad, is being interviewed after *BLEEP*-ing allegedly shooting himself in the *BLEEP*-ing throat. What a stupid mother-*BLEEP*-er. Hope he *BLEEP*-ing chokes. In other *BLEEP*-ing news, some douche named Ekstra was stuck in an elevator for four *BLEEP*-ing days. That’s *BLEEP*-ed up, yo. And, who names their *BLEEP*-ing kid Ekstra? Don’t they have Xs in *BLEEP*-ing East Bumble-*BLEEP*-astan? In weather news, it’s going to rain *BLEEP*-ing cats and dogs, so don’t be a pussy–go buy a *BLEEP*-ing umbrella. Oh, and some *BLEEP*-ing actress named Wither-*BLEEP* totally got deuced and acted like a total *BLEEP* to the cops. Finally, like anyone gives a bouncing *BLEEP*, the NBA playoffs started. *BLEEP*-ing yawn. Now, back to you, hot *BLEEP*-ing Asian chick who tossed my sorry *BLEEP* under a *BLEEP*-ing bus yesterday instead of warning me that my *BLEEP*-ing mic was hot. Take it away, Tits McLee.”

Now that’s some fine-ass TV right there. I might actually switch away from the lovely Fox 5 News meteor-babe-alist, Chrissy Russo, to see it.

Authors are always on the lookout for new ways to promote ourselves. My latest strategy: grocery store shopping carts. Brilliant, huh? Think about it: My smiling face on that swivel-wheeled ankle crusher, for numerous wives and mommies to see and wonder what my story is. As they load jumbo packs of diapers and cat litter, I’ll stare back at them offering to tickle their cerebral clits. Now, this strategy would no doubt be more effective if the book I’m promoting actually resided on a bookshelf at Ralphs. I’d only need forty or so square inches, right next to three varieties of Tidy Cat. Nope. Better yet, place my book in a special display including lubricant, liquor, and Mentos. No can do. You want my book, Miss Almond Milk Buyer, you’ll need to find it on Amazon.

I’m fucked.

“It’s all about branding,” the sales rep assured me as I handed her my credit card. Branding? Oh sure, enjoy a Pepsi and me. I can picture it now: Jane tucks in the tykes, cracks open a can of fizz, pops the top of Ranch Doritos, plants herself with one foot under butt on the loveseat, and decides to feed me to her Kindle. Ahh.

Perhaps, as she devours my silliness, her husband buries beer farts in their couch while watching the Lakers fade into oblivion. Every once in a while, between cursing Dwight Howard for needing a GPS to find the basket during a foul shot, husband will glance over at wife and notice a smirk.

“What’s so funny?”

“Huh?”

“Why are you smirking?”

“Oh, nothing. Just some funny stories in this book I’m reading.”

“What’s it about?”

“It’s a parody of Fifty Shades, written by some local dude.”

“Some local douche.”

“Why is he a douche?”

“Because he’s writing stupid stories about rich men with abs slapping around virgins, and neglected housewives are eating that shit up.”

“Oh, so I’m neglected?”

“Not you. I mean the other ones.”

“Have you read his books?”

“Who?”

“The guy I’m reading. You don’t even know his name.”

“He’s a douche. I guarantee it.”

“Whatever. You’re just hating because your Rams are losing.”

“Lakers.”

“Again–whatever.”

“And I’m not hating. Just saying that it’s weird that you women read that garbage and, like, beat off to it and stuff.”

“You see me touching myself?”

“No, but you probably do.”

“Maybe I do. So what?”

“Fine. Tell me one sexy passage in the book that might lead you to diddle yourself.”

“It’s a parody, dumbass. It’s more funny than sexy.”

“Stupid.”

“OK, in this one scene, the guy arrives to find his woman tied to a bed, wearing only a hockey mask.”

“Stupid.”

“Oh, so if you came home and found me in such a state, you’d tell me I was stupid and ignore the good loving that awaits.”

“Um. I don’t know. I’d probably laugh at you … then have sex.”

“That’s my point.”

“Where did you find out about this guy anyway?”

“On a shopping cart promotion.”

“Douche.”

“Go back to your game, insurance man.”

“Hey, I could be an author if I wanted.”

“What would you write about?”

“I don’t know. Maybe a football team that battles adversity and wins the national championship.”

I’m not stoned. Nope. Never touch the stuff. All right, I might have packed a pipe. I’m doing my biological deed by burning leaves. Yes, I am a responsible citizen. Ashes are good; leaves are bad. I deserve a tax break. Well, this certainly is a lot easier on my liver than those shots of Bushmills. (Ouch.)

After watching a week’s worth of mind-numbing coverage of the Boston bombings, I’ve come to some conclusions, and I’m just high enough share them without giving a significant fuck about negative comments:

This is the first tragedy where it has been proven that traditional media is becoming obsolete. Twitter, Facebook, and Reddit had more relevant, accurate updates long before CNN. This makes me smile.

People need to be more aware of what odd things are going on around them, and not be afraid to speak up about them, regardless of the size, shape, or color of the people involved.

Caroline, while sweet, was probably a cum guzzling nympho.

Allow me to continue, in the format that the media used to cover this week’s events. It’s similar to a crazy person who has nobody to talk to. I’ll ask myself questions, and then answer them.

What is more dangerous: drinking alcohol or smoking weed?

Smoking alcohol.

Should marijuana be legalized?

Dude.

Has anyone ever committed a violent crime after smoking a hugely domed bowl of kronic?

I want to eat cherry Jell-o from my girlfriend’s love tunnel.

Does smoking week make it dangerous to drive?

Only if one is also eating delicate chips and guacamole, while singing along to Journey.

Won’t the Mexican drug cartels become increasingly violent if marijuana is legalized?

Whenever there’s a tragedy, the conspiracy theorists come crawling like roaches from the woodwork, puking nonsense I do my best to avoid stepping in. These geniuses manage to override logic with personal biases, and leap to conclusions that usually have me asking, “Can you hear yourself right now, and how crazy you sound?”

Even William, a humble monk who lived in the 14th century, realized that when multiple explanations are available, the simplest one is usually the correct one. Adding complexity to an explanation does nothing more than cloud the matter. When I hear someone say that our president is a Manchurian candidate planted by Al Qaeda, or that our government is flying planes into buildings and setting off bombs, the delusion scares me more than the act of terrorism. Anyone who has such a wild imagination, and is so disconnected from logic and reality, should either live secluded in the mountains, or write movie scripts.

These people, instead of humbly admitting their mistakes and gullibility, then continue the charade by linking conspiracies by positing something incredible like “The authorities carried out the Boston Marathon bombings in order to justify the expanse of government,” or that it had something to do with gun control. This is no more likely or believable than if I suggested Gordon Ramsay was responsible because he was brainwashed by Kim Jong-un to provide a chili recipe that would detonate if cooked in a crock pot.

Perhaps, if I come up with some conspiracy theories of my own, some of these people will see their silly theories for what they are, retract them, and begin to trust this crazy little gift called logic.

Conspiracy:

ED medicine is laced by Coors Brewing Company with a substance that makes men want to drink beer.

Redheads are aliens who came from a planet with less sunshine and more comedy.

Hotdogs are actually made from euthanized dog meat–flea collars and all.

Cats are perverts who can see ghosts, as well as people having sex in the dark.

iPhones flash embedded images that make people want to smoke weed, masturbate, and watch reality TV.

Tablet devices were designed by women to radiate semen-altering signals, making it taste less like chlorine and more like La Crema.

TSA agents are sex offenders who the government puts in airports because they’re best qualified to pat down passengers.

The odd blue reflectors found in the middle of some streets are homing beacons for an army of skateboarding demons wearing skinny jeans and knit caps, who will rise on 4/20 and conquer our country by throwing cans of PBR at old folks.

Casinos use a secret technology which inserts a probe up the behinds of Asian women sitting at slot machines, turning them into penny-hurling zombies who lose the ability to park.

Scientists are genetically modifying fries, nuggets, and apple fritters to make them more nutritious than kale. Yet, while doing this, it is also causing humans to utter strange things like, “yeah, no,” “exactly,” and “my fucking phone is dead again.” It is also causing mind-burps on otherwise perfectly normal women in their early twenties, when they abbreviate “totally” with “totes,” “amazing” with “amaze,” and use the related combination thereof, “totes amazeballs.”

People (yes, that includes you, Donald Trump and you, Jesse Ventura), try to remember: If it quacks, waddles, and floats, it’s not a cyborg toddler with a pool noodle, it’s a fucking duck.

Arguably, the best lyric since Pink Floyd’s “There’s someone in my head, but it’s not me.” Once you hear “Thrift Shop” by Macklemore, you’ll run across many opportunities to deploy this in your best baritone. Hours ago, I couldn’t resist letting it fly at Starbucks after my first foamy sip of a caramel macchiato. The hipster barista reacted positively; the old woman next in line swatted me with her purse. (That was not fucking awesome.)

What I need you to do, dear friend, is join me in deploying this fabulous phrase each time an opportunity arises. Don’t you dare change “fucking” to something innocuous like “freaking” or “flipping,” or I will report you to the Federal Lyric Adulteration Police (FLAP).

Be aware that many deployments of such will not be well-received. This is expected because of rampant douchebaggery and uptightedness. Don’t be dismayed.

Let’s say you’re male and on the receiving end of a gratuitous beej because your woman is feeling a bit rusty in the crotch. What better time for deployment?

“This is fucking awesome.”

“Excuse me?”

“Sorry to interrupt. Continue.”

“Only if you promise to stop with the play-by-play, Joe Buck.”

“Wouldn’t it be more accurately described as blow-by-blow commentary?”

“Not if you would like it to resume.”

“As you were.”

Naturally, there will be less-frequent (unfortunately) times when she’s on the receiving end of a lick-a-palooza.

*slurp* *sip* *blabababa* *lalala* *slurp*

“This is fucking awesome.”

“Huh?”

“Seems you’re becoming quite adept. See? Practice pays.”

“But, that voice you used was creepy. It was all womens’ basketball coach-y.”

“It doesn’t have the same effect in tenor.”

“Give it a shot.”

“Give me a reason.”

*bladababba* *slurp* *numnumnum*

“This is fucking awesome.”

“You’re right.”

There are times when deploying the phrase could be ill-advised:

At a funeral, unless you’re named in the will.

While receiving a prostate exam, unless you’re attracted to the doctor.

During an IRS audit, unless they determine you’ve overpaid.

While taking a sobriety test, unless it is being administered by Charlie Sheen.

At a middle school play, unless the mother next to you is massaging your groin.

During a dump in a public restroom, unless your boss is in the next stall.

When the bartender announces last call, unless you happen to be the bartender.

After witnessing a compound fracture on TV at a sports bar, unless you’re dressed like a zombie.

While examining a large cucumber in the produce aisle, unless you’re female and I’m standing next to you.

At church, unless …

“OK, son, say five ‘Hail Mary’s and Five ‘Our Father’s, and you will be absolved.”

“Really? That’s all? I just confessed to having an affair with the choir director, and blowing a massive load on her husband’s pillow.”

“Yep, but you’re sorry, right?”

“I am. Still, that’s a pretty light sentence. Honestly, I can’t see it deterring me from doing it again.”

Some days the sun is too bright, the alarm is too loud, and the distance between me and Morning Joe is too great. Yet, these are the symptoms of a fun evening, many of the details of which are foggy due to booze-induced amnesia. If you’ve ever gone day-drinking, you know what I’m referring to, especially if it turned into night-drinking.

Your intentions going in are pure:

I’ll pace myself.

I’ll mix in an ice-water between drinks.

I’ll be sure to eat something.

No tequila.

No shots. Ok, maybe one shot, but that’s the limit. Nothing fruity, and I’m not dropping anything into a beer.

I’ll slow down those final few hours and make sure I get home safely and to bed early.

I’m not texting, calling, or hooking up with any exes.

No late-night greasy Mexican food.

I’m not spending more than fifty dollars.

I won’t leave my credit card at any bars.

The next morning, as you unload the final remnants of Jack from your bladder, you stare forward trying to remember what happened, hoping you can’t recall the cringe-worthy parts.

“I’m not drinking again … ever–well, at least not for the rest of this week.”

“Where did I park?”

“Why are there tater tots in my pocket, and are they still good?”

“Did I really pee in a planter?”

“Where are my shoes?”

“Did Connie really throw up in her husband’s beer?”

Then, you begin your reconnaissance mission, which usually starts with your wallet or purse.

“Thank god, my debit card is here. Naturally, there’s no cash. What is this pill?”

“Whose business card is this? Alex. Hm. That could be a boy or a girl. To the shredder, just to be safe.”

“Whose panties are these? What size are they? Oh, no.”

“Did I eat the other half of this burrito?”

“Where are my keys?”

Next, you reluctantly pick up your phone. The battery is dead, no doubt. You plug it in, wait for the unlock slider to appear, then wince as you check text messages, photos taken, and calls placed.

“I don’t recognize this number. Where is area code 612? Fuck, I dialed it four times after midnight.”

“Why did Jason send me a picture of his dog’s ass?”

“When did I install this Man-on-Man app?”

“My ex texted ‘OMFG.’ This isn’t good.”

“Why was I searching for baba ganoush recipes?”

Then you sign onto Facebook, and look for clues and evidence.

“Why did I check in at a women’s clinic?”

“I’m tagged in this picture, but I don’t see … oh, that must be me lying on the floor. Why am I wearing pumps? Pink is so not my color.”

“I posted a status update with three misspellings and an oddly-placed tilde.”

“Why is Hugh Janus friending me?”

“Here’s a karaoke photo of me and a crackhead-looking dude singing ‘Baby Love.'”

That’s because Vinnie didn’t do enough exercise. A healthy body includes a healthy brain. Vinnie should have climbed a few steps between strokes of genius. I hear he was a big fan of cheese puffs. Tsk, tsk. If you want to keep your mind intact, you need to eat right, exercise, and fuck a lot. That’s why I’m creating the next home fitness DVD sensation, I affectionately like to call P69Sex. (The P stands for Phil, not penis. Why 69? Why not?)

Here’s a preview.

Preparation: Stock your bed with someone willing to have sex with you. Tune your clock radio to any Top 40 station. Set the alarm for fifteen minutes before usual.

Execution: When the alarm goes off, and the radio goes on (interesting), the first voice you hear dictates the next thing you do.

If it is a female voice, the woman (or, in the case of homosexual males, the bottom), must kiss the tip then sprint to the kitchen, turn on the coffeemaker, put a frying pan over low heat, do three deep knee bends, bring a nice glass of juice back to the bedroom, do three lunges, crawl under the sheets, and begin delivering oral pleasure while the partner sips the vitamin C.

If it is a male voice, the man (or top) must read a love poem while doing jumping jacks, jog to the kitchen, turn on the coffeemaker, load six slices of bacon in the microwave, do three pushups, brush his teeth, and return to the bedroom with a cup of yogurt and granola. She gets her probiotics while he lick-starts the fun.

Now that you have cranked up your heart rates, it’s time to get funky. Remember, you only have ten or so minutes remaining before it’s “fuck, I have to go to work” o’clock.

*NOTE: If you have young children to attend to … umm … shit, I got nothin’. Why’d ya go do that? You could have gotten a pet lizard or something similarly non-traumatized by watching humans copulate.

Now, for those of you smart enough to clear your home of two-legged pests, it’s time to work up a lather. You must go through six positions before ejaculation. For added bonus, do this while getting traffic reports and flossing. Don’t worry, my program doesn’t include any yucky morning kisses.

Let’s begin with missionary, with a roll into girl-on-top, a spin to reverse cowgirl, a situp into doggie, a somersault into sixty-nine, and finish with my favorite: the spork. Don’t tell me you don’t know how to spork. Oh, baby Jesus, you poor thing. It’s only the ideal position for morning sex. Fine. Listen up. She lies on her back with left leg flat and right leg slightly bent. He lies next to her with his upper torso at around the ten o’clock position relative to hers. His right leg goes under her right leg, insert morning boner, and ta-da! For those of you who still have eggs and swimmers, this position is also great for him to pull out and make belly puddles. In fact, if he’s able to launch any goo past the nipples, he deserves a round of applause and a bonus apple fritter.

Once complete with this phase, it should be normal get-out-of-bed-you-lazy-ass time. Shit, shower, shave, and go earn some money so you can afford the second DVD in my series, called “Tap Ass.”

In the wake of the Rutgers coach firing, perhaps I should tone down my relationship coaching methods and rhetoric. Lord knows I wouldn’t want any celebrities or famous athletes to attract attention by feigning disgust with my overuse of dirty words and dildo slaps. When I employ name-calling, it’s out of love, not hate. Still, certain newscasters claim to be vicariously damaged when I call a cheating husband a fuzzy puddle of ball sweat.

Sure, my fiery style of coaching has come into question over the years, but my record speaks for itself, assholes … sorry, I mean dummy heads. Look how many marriages I’ve created and saved with my proprietary methods. What’s that? None, you say? Look, Paris wasn’t built in a day. Shut up. Sure, I’ve snapped a few hineys with a wet towel, but I haven’t killed anyone.

Some nosy fucker taped one of my sessions and posted it for the world to see. You need to understand that the video taken out of context may be offensive to some thin-skinned pussy farts. If you haven’t seen it (thank you for having a fucking life), it allegedly shows:

Me squirting Astroglide on a man’s head, telling him it should “make it easier to keep your head up your ass.”

Me calling a smarmy hipster a “fucking tooth fairy with a tiny wand” and a “fucking British cigarette.”

Me lining a sports bra with Bengay to teach a certain hosebag to stop destroying bar stools with her sparkle jeans.

Me ear-flicking a man who was taking a self-portrait in the restroom with his iPhone.

Me throwing eggs at some douche wearing skinny jeans and loafers without socks.

Me chasing women around the locker room with a Super Soaker filled with chilled prosecco.

Unconventional? Maybe.

The video also captures me chastising a gentleman for lying on his Match.com profile.

“Why you hairless corpulent ugolicious rectum-sniffing mole with a micropenis. How could you post pictures from a cruise you took with your parents a decade ago? Do you look like this now, maggot? Please show me the fucking ruler that claims you’re six feet tall. In pumps, standing on your toes, with your comb-over gelled toward the heavens, you’re five fucking six, at best. You say you make six figures. Hey, flea brain, you’re only supposed to count the figures to the left of the decimal point. You disgust me, you turd-like pork-bellied puke-inducing sperm-receptical. Now drop and give me twenty before I pinch your nipple with a rusty clamp.”

Harsh? Perhaps. But, it got the job done. He changed his profile the next morning. Well, sure, he hasn’t met anyone since. Still, I’ve set him up for success and saved countless women from placing blind-date distress calls. Fine, I’ll try it your way, moral America.

“Oh, silly man. You’re just a bundle of cuteness, but you know those pictures are not good representations of the current version of you. I think you made a wittle oopsie when you typed your height, shnookums. And, I admire that you’ve taken steps to improve your financial situation by living in your parents’ garage, but you’re not really earning six-figures by being a basketball player sweat mopper, are you? I need you to apologize to all the women you’ve dated in the past year and, as punishment, I’m going to need you to stand over there facing the corner, thinking about what you did.”

I just read on MSN about an Italian woman who just turned 101. Her daily diet includes two glasses of wine with lunch, a glass of Southern Comfort before dinner, and a can of Bud after dinner. This lovely specimen must have genetic ties to me, because I plan on living to 101, and gathering quite a few souvenir corks along the way. Fermentation makes life more interesting. Sure, I could replace that evening beverage with an iced tea, but then there’s the caffeine-at-night thing. Plus, I’d lose the most convenient excuse for the silly things I say and do. I can’t very well defend licking a stranger’s neck by offering a plea of “high on tea.”

Place an alcoholic beverage in front of me, and nothing is boring. When I begin to drift or feel a yawn approaching, I simply bring glass to lip and sip. No story is too long, too often repeated, or too far-fetched. Wine makes it fine.

Then there’s sex. As long as the sex doesn’t include a sober, no-fun person, it’s better on the rocks. Kindly ignore the beer burps, and enjoy the ride.

“Hey, you know (hic) what? I wanna do it doggie-style.”

“So, you want me to do it with one leg up, or would you like me to chew your ear like hide?”